From The Ashes
by Cozzybob
Summary: Duo gets a call to identify the remains of someone he loves.


**From The Ashes**

Pair: implied 2+3

Rated: PG-13 (or T)

Warning: ANGST! There's not one sob, but it's there. Contains death (of old age), homelessness.

Note: For motley_sis and the gw500 challenge "your hand."

Summary: Duo gets a call to identify the remains of someone he loves.

* * *

A homeless man dies in a subway car. He takes three loops through the city before anyone notices they're sitting next to a corpse. They take away his body, and they shove him into a metal drawer at the local hospital. A week later, no identification found, they dispose of him in the crematorium.

He doesn't even get a plaque to mark his passing.

The man's name?

Well, the man doesn't matter, does he? No, the only thing that matters are the forms filled before cremating him, marking down his description, a photograph, any belongings, the date of his death, the cause of his death, and his John Doe status. There's an anonymous plastic jar with his remains, gathered from the oven. It's packed away in a tight little box to be forgotten until you show up a few days later and wave a badge in the faces of medical personnel.

Then you call me, and I head off to identify the deceased, and collect his ashes.

"Duo," you say, when I enter a little white-walled conference room, an empty table and four chairs marking our visit. You take my hand and it's warm. You squeeze, but I don't squeeze back.

I nod, pretending nonchalance, but I can't bring myself to speak. A man enters the room with the jar, the forms, and an upside-down photograph. He lays everything on the table, and he looks at you, not me.

"Agent Barton? Is he ready to identify?"

I can't stop looking at the jar. Your hand tugs on mine, and you utter, "Duo, are you ready?"

Nod. Not really, never ready, but it has to be done. I want to be out of here.

His ashes look like the inside of a vacuum bag, all dust balls, bunnies, and fingernail clippings clumped haphazardly together. I can't help but wonder why the jar has to be vaguely-clear plastic. Why can't it be... glass? Something pretty, like an urn. Something respectable. Something he'd have liked.

"He's ready," you say, but your hand never leaves mine. It's not just comfort--you're restraining whatever anger is left of me.

But strangely, I feel nothing at all.

"Okay," the doctor says, and fingers the photograph, anxious. He mustn't like whatever's on my face. "Just remember, this is slightly disturbing--"

"He can handle it," you tell him.

I nod again. It seems the thing to do.

The doctor flips over the photograph. I stare for a long time, wondering at all the wrinkles, all the hair. There's a bruise on his face, and his eyes are shriveled prunes. Underneath the peacefully shut lids, you know they're clouded blue with severe cataracts. What little hair he has is standing up in gray-white tufts, and you ache to reach through the picture and smooth them down. His bald spot is withered, and dotted with age. He died frowning. He died drinking vodka.

"What did he die from?" It's the first thing I've said all day, and your hand squeezes just a little tighter.

Your hand says, _I'm sitting right here._

"The cold, poor nutrition, lack of proper shelter... there's no telling, Mr..."

"Maxwell."

"Mr. Maxwell. There's really no telling--"

I flinch, and he sees it. "Just call me Duo," I say,

He grunts in vague confusion. "Okay, Duo. From what we could tell, there was a stroke, and then the gradual failing of all his organs. We're sure he died in his sleep, according to witnesses."

"He had Alzheimer's," you offer. Your hand squeezes again, and I still don't squeeze back. "He was in a nursing home, but he escaped during the night a month ago, and we've been looking for him since."

I close my eyes. I don't want to hear it.

"And this is your missing loved one?"

In the comfort of darkness, I whisper, "Yeah. That's Howard."

Your hand clenches, and it hurts. I squeeze back in retaliation. When I open my eyes, you're smiling limply at me, offering shallow comfort.

Very carefully, the doctor passes the plastic jar to me. He gives me a sympathetic smile. "Very sorry for your loss."

Nod.

"Cremation is standard procedure after a week of investigation. I apologize for the lack of..." Respect. "...finesse." I snort. He winces. "On behalf of Saint Jude's Hospital, we're offering--"

I stand up and turn away. At my back, you mutter, "I'm sorry. Now isn't the time."

I can almost hear the doctor's head wobble to and fro in sympathy.

Lean against the wall, outside the door. There's a dull painting of a vase and pretty roses on the other side of the hall. I hate it, wondering how Howard ended up in this place. He'd hate it too. It's disgusting.

You walk through the door, and you're carrying the jar. You hold it out to me.

I take it with shaking hands.

"Thanks Trowa."

"Any time. Do you need a ride?"

"No, I... I got it covered."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

You're frowning. Your hand seizes mine again, and the palm is clammy with sweat. Your eyes are sunlit meadows and evergreen. Some romantic part of me thinks you smell like pine.

Your hand tightens, and I know you don't want to let go.

"You know where to spread it, Duo?"

The ashes are heavy when I answer, "No. I'm giving it to the Sweepers. They'll know what to do."

Silence, then, "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"If you're sure..."

"I'm sure."

"Alright then. You have my number." Reluctantly, you let go.

I scrub my palm against my jeans because it tingles, and you frown down at your hand briefly, wondering if you have cooties. It makes me smile. "See you later, Tro."

"Later, Duo."

Another awkward pause.

I nod. You nod.

Scared, quiet laughter.

We walk away. My palm still itches for your hand.


End file.
